


Come Hell Or High Witches

by Hirrient



Category: CHOHW, Come Hell Or High Water - Fandom
Genre: Anal, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Bondage, Devil worship, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gore, Hand Jobs, Horror, M/M, Restraints, Ritual, Ritual Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Sacrifice, Witch AU, Witchcraft, a gay marriage in hell, absolute filth, gay as HELL get it, non-con, pact, voodoo viagra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 04:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hirrient/pseuds/Hirrient
Summary: ‘Does your flesh ache?’ Gladimir said with a knowing smile. He leaned down, and with a thumb, wiped blood from Cicada’s chin and brought it to his mouth. Cicada watched, transfixed half with revulsion, half with desire as the witch slowly sucked the finger clean, eyes never breaking from their shared gaze.__________________________________________________________________________Cicada is sacrificed by the witch prince Gladimir in a blood-and-sex ritual.





	Come Hell Or High Witches

**Author's Note:**

> Someone had to kick off this fandom so I've basically gone and done it in the worst way possible. Pray for my cursed soul. 
> 
> Encouraged thoroughly by this Good Stuff:  
> Http://asuraaa.tumblr.com/image/180059020095
> 
> Terrible Au inspired by this excellent and significantly more wholesome comic:  
> https://chohwcomic.tumblr.com/
> 
> __________________________________________________________________________

They dragged Cicada through the trees of the deepening forest.

Nettles snagged at his bare feet, pulling blood from him, and his every struggle was a vain resistance. They locked his arms with an inhuman grip—his captors.

He didn’t know what they were, but he knew what they weren’t.

Natural.

Cicada took sight of them in panicked flashes— a coven of twenty, thirty perhaps, slinking through the shadows on all sides of him. They walked like men, but they seemed to stretch like shadows. Their faces were cowled with the flayed skins of deer heads. They lit the way with torches that burned an unnatural blue. A devil’s flame.

‘Where are ya taking me, hell-beasts,’ he yelled, but yelling hadn’t yet done him good and it seemed it wouldn’t now either. One of the creatures only turned their flaccid eyeless sockets to him, as if in consideration. Silently they looked back ahead, to where the trees suddenly cleared away.

There could be no question now. _It_ towered in the middle of the clearing—An enormous, anciently twisted oak. Now Cicada understood the clearing with some deep instinct—Nothing natural had ever dared to grow close.

The leafless canopy spanned the entire clearing with ghost white limbs. Gnarled roots clumped down over a mossy knoll, holding the soil where the rest of the ground had long eroded away. At the base of the great trunk was a white stone altar, bathed in a beam of moonlight.

Cicada saw the iron restraints meant for holding him. He kicked harder as they dragged him forward.

They slammed him down on the icy slab and held him down. He felt hands running up his calves, past his knees, sliding to the inside of his thighs and taking a sudden, painful hold. With a wrench, they forced his legs apart. In seconds he felt his ankles steel-cuffed at either edge of the alter, leaving him helpless, spread on his knees, and wide open.

The panic was enough for him to pull his upper body free, at least for a few seconds before an unholy power slammed him back into submission. His temple dashed on the stone. His mouth filled with the heat of running blood.

‘Well,’ begun a voice conversationally. ‘Aren’t you spirited?’

From the corner of his eye, Cicada could see one of the coven stepping forward from the rest. It approached him, and with a motion of its hand, he could turn his head to regard it fully, standing over him now. It looked down with those black shadowy slits-for-eyes.

‘You really ought to behave better,’ it spoke again, with a smooth and pleasant voice that seemed in complete odds with such a monster. That was, until it reached up and removed the cowl.

‘But,’ continued the man beneath, ‘I suppose there’d be no fun in that.’

Cicada felt his breath catch in his throat as the man’s soft pale hair floated free on the light night breeze. He was beautiful. Almost achingly. Slight and pretty, as though lifted directly from Cicada’s fantasies. This was magic—devil’s tricks—and yet Cicada couldn’t help but stare into that perfect boyish face and feel desire. Part of him knew this was a cunning disguise only, that a foul creature sought to take advantage of him. He tried to fight the desire to drink in the form hungrily. He was failing.

The witch boy seemed to take pleasure from that.

‘Does your flesh ache?’ he said with a knowing smile. He leaned down, and with a thumb, wiped blood from Cicada’s chin and brought it to his mouth. Cicada watched, transfixed half with revulsion, half with desire as the witch slowly sucked the finger clean, his eyes never breaking from their shared gaze.

‘I haven’t had such heated blood before,’ he said, his eyes growing a little lidded and heavy. He considered Cicada for a few dosing moments longer, before snapping his eyes to someone behind.

‘Unveil him,’ he ordered. Cicada felt the breath of a knife gliding but a hair from the backs of his legs. Then he realised too late what was happening to him. What they were doing. The cotton of his pants split and coiled beneath him, rags.

Hot shame and the cold night gripped claim on his body, now entirely naked and spread on display before the eyes of thirty silent figures. He could do nothing as the fair-headed witch took a slow turn, considering every angle with slow deliberation. Violation coiled in Cicada along with something _else_ , polarized by the shame and stark in the face of it. Arousal, stirring wild deep within him. It flared alive when the witch returned and took Cicada’s face into his soft cool hands, and raised a chalice to his lips.

Cicada had no choice—drink, or choke. He alternated both, the instantly recognisable body temperature hitting the back of his throat. The iron and salt identified on his tongue, the thick congelation of it unmistakable as the full chalice of blood slid down inside him. He could feel those cool light fingers gently stroking down over the front of his gagging throat encouragingly.

And then the devil claimed possession over his flesh.

Waves of almost unbearable heat climbed through his body. He couldn’t help but writhe and buck his hips, sharply aware of his audience, but unable to stop. He needed contact, and it was agonizing he couldn’t bring his pinned hands down on himself. He looked up at the witch boy.

‘Please.’

A smirk passed across those perfect lips, and Cicada longed to rip himself free—to seize this incubus and throw him down on the stone and take his pleasure from inside that lithe body.

‘That’s not what is going to happen here tonight,’ answered the witch, siphoning the thoughts straight off him like they were obvious as whiskey fumes.

‘You are _my_ flesh to take. Through your body, I will draw on His power.’

Was that what this was? This unbearable building force within him? He thought it might tear him apart. Part of him longed for that.

‘Only mortal flesh can channel holy powers into this plain, but they cannot hold it.’

He reached down and stroked his fingers over Cicada’s cheek.

‘I am Gladimir. High priest to my Lord's order, and prince to his realm. If I do not drain you now, you will perish.’

_Drain_ him. Cicada could think only of those words as the witch prince drew a long silver blade and shrugged his robe to the mossy forest floor. His body seemed to glow, naked and moon-pale.

He climbed onto the altar before Cicada, his knees pinking a faint blush on contact against the stone. Seizing a sudden handful of hair, Gladimir wrenched Cicada’s head back and caught his mouth in a deep and forceful kiss.

It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough. Cicada’s body was screaming for contact, for relief. He kissed the prince back like he was air, and he almost was at this point. The prince’s cool fingertips slid from Cicada’s head to his collarbones, his chest, his belly, his—

He groaned, the irons biting into his ankles as he strained to intensify the contact of that slow palming. He was only distantly aware of the blood running over his feet as he was slowly, slowly milked. There seemed no end to the waves of pleasure that only climbed in him.

‘You need a lot more than this,’ Gladimir breathed into his ear, his expert fingers stroking hot stripes of endless cum from Cicada without relent. He pulled away and considered it.

‘You’re channeling more power than any I’ve ever seen before,’ he said with a slight frown, but words were barely making sense anymore to Cicada.

‘Take it,’ he begged, barely even understanding his own words. ‘Take it from me.’

The witch prince took his hands away completely and slid off the altar. Cicada groaned in desperation, screwing his eyes shut and writhing. Then he felt cool fingers take his hips firmly, and a body fit to him, and a sudden violence his body welcomed deep inside. He let out a broken cry as he felt the witch take him with an urgency, as though a poison was spreading within him and it was a race to administer the antidote. He was losing all senses but for the single agonizing pleasure taking him over, the world dissolving into white vagueness.

A red burst of sharp pain.

He wrenched back into vivid consciousness. He cried out as Gladimir fucked him and carved his blade into the muscle of Cicada’s back.

‘Stay with me,’ Gladimir commanded, slashing his blade deeper. Cicada vaguely understood that his pain was being used as an anchor to the physical world from which he was fast slipping. Vaguely, he realised he was dying, and this man inside him was doing what he could to hold him back from the brink.

‘ _Stay_ ,’ the witch breathed, his own breath hitching in his throat as though he was struggling at keeping _himself_ grounded. ‘ _With_ _me_ …’

The prince dropped the blade clattering to the stone and hugged his chest to Cicada’s bloody back, clawing his fingers into flesh, twisting cicada’s head and kissing him deeply, more passionately than anyone had in all his life. More desperately, as prince Gladimir drove in all the way. As everything faded to white nothing.

*

 

Cicada opened his eyes.

All around him were pillars of flames. Beyond, a black velvet galaxy stretched on to infinity. That was hardly what Cicada noticed. Not with the witch-prince Gladimir’s pale and unburning body standing calmly before him. Gone was the alter, the clearing, the coven. Here, it was just the two of them, joined in a lover’s hold, facing each other. Alone in the expanse, together in a realm known only before, perhaps, in fleeting dreams.

‘Is this death?’ Cicada asked.

Gladimir smiled, not unkindly.

‘If you choose it,’ he said. ‘but you might allow me to save your soul for a higher fate.’

‘ _Save_ my soul?’ Cicada repeated, the irony far from lost on him.

Gladimir reached his hand and smeared his thumb over Cicada’s lips.

‘Will you enter a pact,’ he asked. He was beguiling, the way he faintly smiled. The lightest blush bloomed on his cheeks.

‘A pact with a devil?’ Cicada said.

The witch prince nodded.

‘My power can tether your soul to the earth,’ he promised. ‘And you can draw an earthly power for me stronger than any other before. No blade will pierce your mortal flesh with us joined. No power will stop us.’

_Joined with me._ Every sensible instinct should have turned Cicada to gamble his chances on the afterlife. Cicada, however, had never been known as a sensible man. Especially not now, drunk on this hellishly perfect creature of desire.

 ‘We will be bonded?’ Cicada said. ‘Our souls?’

‘And our flesh,’ Gladimir nodded. ‘Beyond death. So tell me, do you consent to be my vessel?’

Cicada fixed on him.

‘I do.’

*

 

Cicada jerked awake.

The pale moon shone in the night sky. The trees of the forest rustled gently on the wind. And the witch-prince Gladimir gazed down into Cicada’s face, his silvery hair wetly shimmering with their mixed sweat and blood.

‘Welcome,’ said the witch, ‘To the other side.’

***

 


End file.
